


shining morning faces

by marquisdegayaf



Category: Something Rotten! - Kirkpatrick/Kirkpatrick/O'Farrell
Genre: guess what the title's a shakespere reference, local english fic author extremely hype to write about england, nick is a great brother, nigel is autistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquisdegayaf/pseuds/marquisdegayaf
Summary: i couldn't think of a title so i saved this as 'A Something Rotten AU Where Its The 90s And There’s Cornish Slang And It’s Sad' and that's actually a pretty good summary so heeeeeeeeeeeeey





	

Once, they were three and thirteen and summer in Falmouth seemed endless. The grey beach covered in shingle was the most exciting place on earth. Nick had friends, boys and girls from primary who’d call round and spirit him off to the arcade by the shore. Dad was home from the navy. Mum was happy, singing and dancing around the kitchen after work. Nigel said his first word. It was a year and a bit late but that just made it better. The word was muma. He repeated it over and over, smiling his sweet, gap-toothed smile and flapping his hands with joy. A month later the word was book. Three weeks after that the word was Nick. Three words. Three words over and over again. Nick and Nigel would sit face to face, Nigel screwing his nose up with concentration. Nick would point at himself:  
“Who’s this?”  
“Nicky!” would be the reply. Nick would point to a book placed beside them:  
“What’s that?”  
“Book!”  
“What’s in the book?”  
“Words!”  
“Do you like the words?” would be too far. Nigel would fall silent. Nick would give him a hug and the game would cease. They played the game every day during Nick’s seven weeks of summer holiday. Five weeks in he could say three sentences. Their mum called Nick a genius. Their dad ruffled Nick’s hair and gruffly told him that he was better at dealing with Nigel than the rest of the family put together. Nick quietly thought to himself that Nigel wasn’t some kind of thing to be dealt with. You deal cards, not people, Nick thought.

That September, Nick started year eight. He retained his space in the G. A. T. g.a.t English, math, and drama groups. He chose French for his MFL mfl. The Campbells came down from London in October half term, the same way they did every year. Nick liked the continuity. He liked Bea, the Campbell’s daughter. He managed to talk to her without blushing, most of the time. They’d sit up in the living room for hours while their parents were out, talking about films and books and everything they liked and taking turns bouncing Nigel on their respective hips. At three and a quarter years he still couldn't do more than toddling. On the last day of half term, when Nick turned fourteen, the Bottoms and Campbells drove down to Sennen Cove for lunch. The adults went to the pub, but Nick and Bea crept away, down some muddy steps and onto the beach proper. Nick carried Nigel down. Bea rolled her sleeves up, pulled her hair into a ponytail and jumped down the last five steps with a screech, landing on her hands and knees. Her shins got grazed and her hands got muddy, but she jumped up regardless and ran down toward the sea. Nick followed Bea and Nigel followed Nick, stumbling occasionally but still eventually making it to the sea, in which Bea was already ankle deep. Nick helped Nigel get his shoes and socks off before following Bea into the sea. She was knee-deep by now and turned to look at Nick:  
“It’s stinging my bleeding legs! Literally and metaphorically bleeding!” She shouted over the roar of the further-out waves.  
“It’s antiseptic!” Nick yelled back.  
“Who cares! It’s rubbish!” She screeched and carded her right hand across the water, sending ripples around her thighs. Nick turned around to check on Nigel. He hasn’t moved beyond simply wetting his toes, and didn’t look like he was about to. He was fixing the sea with a look of total mistrust. Nick shrugged it off. At least Nigel wasn’t in over his head, Nick thought. When Nick and Bea ceased paddling, Nigel was sitting calmly with his hands on his lap a few meters away from the shore. Bea picked him up, swung him around and booped his nose: “d’ya like the sea, Nige?”  
“Nah.”  
“Nah?”  
“Nah. Don’ like. S’bad.” He mumbled. Nick looked up at them from where he was lacing his shoes back up. Nigel was staring over Bea’s shoulder at the sea with the same fearful look.  
“Well, that’s fine, dearie. We don’t have to be near the sea if you don’t want. Wanna make a sandcastle?”  
“Nicky help?” Nigel asked, looking over at Nick. Bea raised an eyebrow at him.  
“Course I will.” He said with a smile, scrambling up, “Race y’both to the dry sand!” 

That winter was tumultuous. Salt spray battered the window of the Bottom family house. Waves stretched as tall as the lighthouse. Nigel hid under the sofa in the evening and clung to his mother in the day. Almost every night Nick was woken up by Nigel banging his fists against the ladder of the bunk bed they shared until Nick lifted him up and let him sleep in the top bunk, too. Some nights waves and spray would hit the windows and Nick and Nigel and their parents would sleep in the sitting room. Dad would build a canopy out of sheets and project films onto them. Fantasia, usually. The whole family would lie on mattresses and sofa cushions, watching beautifully animated images swirl. Nigel would reach up, trying to touch the people dancing above him. Eventually, he’d fall asleep on his mum’s shoulder, snuffling slightly. Mum would smile, stroke Nigel’s curls away from his face and share a conspiratorial look with Nick before pressing a kiss to her eldest’s forehead and shutting her eyes. Their father stayed up while the rest of the family slept. Weathering the storm. 

February came around. Nigel turned four. Mum organised a party with some of the kids from their street. The only issue was that all the other families on the street’s children were Nick’s age or older. So the house was full of grownups. There was music playing. The teenagers were kicking a football around. Everyone was chatting. Nigel was sitting cross-legged in the corner in the outfit which was usually reserved for holy days, saying nothing, doing nothing, the fifty other people might as well not have been there. Nick fidgeted guiltily with the collar of his dress shirt. The tall lady from next door nudged him:  
“Alright, Nick?”  
“Sure, now. you alright?”  
“Aye. Yer brother alright?”  
“Aye. Just shy.”  
“Oh derovim,” she tutted. As they spoke, Nigel had crawled under the table and was running his hands along the carpet, over and over. Nick excused himself from the lady neighbour and crouched down so he was level with his brother.  
“Wasson, Nige?” Nigel made a humming noise in response. Nick tried again: “Having a good birthday?”  
“Want ‘um t’go ‘way.”  
“Uh-huh?” Nigel nodded to that. “They’ll be gone soon, don’t worry.”  
“Promise?”  
“Promise. D’ye want yer birthday present from me?” Nick asked. Nigel’s face lit up. Nick gestured for his brother to follow him out from under the table, out of the front room, up two flights of stairs to their attic room. Nick dug a small parcel out from under the bed and passed it to Nigel, who tore it open immediately. Inside was a small, Moleskine notebook. Nigel looked over at Nick quizzically. “S’for writing, boyo.”  
“Can’t write!”  
“Then I’ll teach you.”  
“Promise.”  
“Aye, promise.”

And so, in easter holiday, Nick taught Nigel to write. He learnt to write faster than he learnt to speak, starting with big, shaky capitals which quickly developed into neat, joined letters. The whole alphabet. His name. Nick’s name. Sentences. All in three weeks. And as the sentences formed on the page they formed in the kid’s mouth, too. He finally spoke. Properly. He still repeated certain words, words he liked, words of increasing size. Twirl. Swing. Cycle. The writing turned to reading and by summer he started reading fluently. Reading and writing. Four years old. Their mum said she had no idea how Nick and Nigel got so smart. Nick started his maths GCSE a year early. His teacher said he was on track for Oxbridge. Nick’s friend Kieron told him that Mara with the big arms and the strong Cornish accent has a crush on him. Nick tried not to make eye contact with Mara for the rest of the term. Nick played Fagin in the summer production of Oliver. Nigel went to watch and jumped up and down on his chair when Nick went on for bows. Dad went back into the Navy. Mum started working full time again. Nigel was bounced around different pre-schools and daycares and kindergartens, but every time there was some debacle. A fight. A sobbing fit. A point blank refusal to let go of Nick’s hand. In the end, they gave up on kindergarten, so Nigel stayed with the neighbour lady during the day. No one had time to wonder if or when Nigel would be able to go to school. 

Summer holiday began. The days stretched out. Tourists flooded Foulmouth. Nick and Nigel laid on their stomachs on the beach and watched the boats on the horizon.  
“Nicky?”  
“Aye?”  
“Which one’s da?”  
“No idea,” Nick said quietly. Way out past the beach and the sea a horn blows. Nick feels a tug on his heart. “Would you wanna be a sailor, Nige?”  
“Nah. Sea’s bad.”  
“Why is that?” Nick asked. Nigel stared out at the sea for a long while before he spoke:  
“Too dark. Too much.” He whispered. Nick didn’t bother probing further. They walked down the shore in the sun. Got ice cream. Bumped into Nick’s friends. Mara was there. She was about ninety feet taller than Nigel. She asked why Nigel never talked. Nick and Nigel shrugged in unison and walked away, chatting incessantly. Nick could feel Mara’s eyes burning the back of his neck but brushed it off.

August began. Nigel seemed to be ill all the time. Constantly in bed with a cold or the flu, plagued by sniffles and coughs and sneezes. Always in bed. The attic room with the bunk bed became two rooms with two bed. Nick in the big room in the attic, Nigel alone in a box room on the middle floor with weighted blankets and an endless amount of Nurofen. The nights got longer. Nick watched the boats on the horizon as the sun set every night. Waiting.

Waiting for a day which never came, because on the first of September in the morning Mum got a call. She screamed. Dropped the phone. Nick had his school tie half tied when he ran into the front room to see what had happened. Mum was already sobbing. Clawing at her own face. Unable to breathe. Nick ran over to her, tried to talk to her. She grabbed him. Pulled him close. Whispered ‘he’s gone’ over and over and over. Nick couldn’t process it. Couldn’t think properly. He didn’t register his mother moving away from him, collapsing onto the sofa, her entire body racked with tears. He barely saw Nigel stumble into the room, looking around like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Nick covered his face with his hands and sunk to the ground. Nigel was left standing. Confused. Terrified. 

They said he could have the whole of September off, but Nick didn’t want it. Didn’t want their pity. Didn’t want the sympathetic glances in the hall or the headteacher’s sappy speech or the salutes from passing sailors. Didn’t want any of it. Nigel stopped speaking again. Nick tried to get him to play the naming game. It didn’t work. Mum, though. Mum was the worst. No more dancing in the kitchen after work. No more work. At least Nigel didn’t have to stay with the neighbour lady anymore, but no more work also meant no more money. No money turned to no heating, and October turned cold and dark and Nigel was sick. Nick couldn't sleep at night because of all of the constant coughs from downstairs. Every second. Like a clock under Nick's mattress, reminding him that time was passing. 

A week before Nick's fifteenth birthday, his first birthday without Dad, the house was silent. No coughing from Nigel. No wailing from mum. Nick knew something was wrong the moment he stepped inside, hair soaked and face red and raw from the rain. It was colder inside than it had been in the street. Nick called out for his mum, for Nigel. No reply was forthcoming. He climbed the stairs, slowly. Cautiously. The lights were off, but for one. Glowing from inside Mum’s room. Nick stuck his head around the door frame and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his mum is sitting on the further side of the bed, Nigel in her arms.  
“Hi, Mum,” Nick said in the tone he’d started using for her recently. Soft and slightly chiding. There was no response. Nick walked around the bed and bent down. “Mum?” He couldn’t see her face, but he could see her hands, one on Nigel’s left shoulder and on his head. Pressing down so hard that her knuckles had turned white.  
“Mum, I think you should let Nigel go.” Nigel’s eye’s darted over to Nick, flashing him a look which was impossible to read. Shock? Fear? Calm? Pain.  
“Mum. You’re hurting him. Let go.” She said nothing. Nick felt nauseous. Nigel’s entire body was visibly shaking. Nick made an executive decision, reached down and pulled his brother out of mum’s arms. Something made a loud cracking noise, and Nick jolted away in shock. The clutching, Nick and Nigel would learn later while stood in the hospital hall, was rigour mortis. The nurses kept peering at Nigel. Poking him. Asking if he was okay. He didn’t respond. They said he was in shock. Nick told them that it was just how Nigel was. They said that he was in shock, too. 

The night after that they were alone. Alone in a big, cold house. Nigel spoke for the first time since Mum got the call, in a hoarse husky voice. Asked Nick what would happen next. Nick said nothing because he knew nothing. Well, not really. He knew that they didn’t have any more family. He knew that the whole town would know what had happened within the week. He knew that social services would be on them. He knew they could and would split them up. He knew they could and would put Nigel in the special school. The one in Exeter. Four hours away on the train. And he knew that he wasn’t going to let that happen. 

Five days and one long, painful walk later Nick and Nigel were sitting in a council flat in Brixton, London. Dazed and confused. Sickly and terrified. Somewhat optimistic.

**Author's Note:**

> i think i wanna write more of this so,,,,,,,, if that sounds like something you'd be. into or if you liked this then fully hmu with a comment it'll make me Happy
> 
> millions of thanks to my beautiful partner liv (bxckflip.tumblr.com) for being an actual angel and proofreading this


End file.
